Sherlock Imagines
by Ashtrees
Summary: Sherlock imagines what his world would be like if men suffered PMS. It's a silly story.


Molly Hooper groaned and slumped over her desk. She had paracetamol for her aching stomach, but it would take time to kick in. Meanwhile, she had so much work to do…but, it was agony.

Sherlock was being less than sympathetic.

"Just ignore it," he suggested. "You go through it every month, so you should be used to it."

Molly looked up long enough to glare at the detective. "You wouldn't say that if you had to go through it. Just imagine what the world would be like if men had PMS."

So, Sherlock did…

Sherlock wanted toast, as he did every morning. He wasn't usually too fussy about how well toasted the slice of white bread was, however, that morning he was. He was nothing but disgusted at the sight of the charred bread which had popped out of the toaster only a few seconds ago.

"OH, ARSE-MONKEYS! WHY WON'T THIS FRECKING TOASTER DO AS IT'S BLOODY WELL TOLD?!"

He ripped the toaster away from the wall and hurled it across the room. John was fortunate enough to have been sitting on the sofa and so was far out of range of the flying toaster. He still winced, though, as the appliance smashed against the far wall, narrowly missing the window, and tumbled to the floor with a metallic and sad clunk.

"ALL I WANTED WAS SOME CRUDDING TOAST!" Sherlock bellowed and stormed down the hall to the bathroom.

"Take a B6?" John suggested quietly, but somehow Sherlock still heard him, or at least anticipated that John would whisper such a remark.

"PISS OFF, JOHN!"

OOOOOOO

Much to John's despair, Lestrade had summoned Sherlock to a crime scene that afternoon. If Sherlock's body was going to follow its usual pattern, then there would be tears and crippling stomach cramps before the day was out.

Sherlock was kneeling down over a body when the familiar waves of cramping began in his stomach and upper thighs. Urgh, it was agony. Normally, he made it a personal rule not to take on case work during his time, but sometimes it was unavoidable.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, plenty!" Sherlock snapped. He wondered why he was a detective. He hated being a detective. It was stupid. Everything was stupid. But, he would he have to carry on for stupid Lestrade. He was about to talk when another wave of cramping swept down his abdomen. With it came a flood of cold sweat running down his back. He was overheating now. It was winter for goodness sake!

He tried to hide the pain and discomfort, but, of course, John noticed and had to do something about it, maybe as payback for the broken toaster.

John was at his side immediately. "Sherlock, you idiot!" he hissed. "I told you not to come out today! Fortunately, for you I always carry paracetamol with me, just in case for sudden starts."

"What's wrong with the Freak?" asked Donovan, coming over.

"Nothing," said John.

"I'm having stomach cramps," Sherlock supplied. Always honest.

Donovan pulled a disgusted look, holding up her hands like a barrier. "That's too much information. I don't want to know!"

"It's a natural biological cycle all men -"

"Yeah, and I said I don't want to know! Keep it to yourselves."

John's face suddenly screwed up in pain; he dropped to the ground next to Sherlock.

"Ow! I'm cramping too!" He gasped. "We're in sync!"

"And me," gasped Lestrade, also pale and clutching his stomach.

Donovan looked amused. "If you're in so much pain maybe you should all just go home and I'll take care of everything."

"That's enough from you, sergeant!" Lestrade growled. "If every man took time off just because he is in excruciating pain, then the whole country would grind to a halt. But, we're manly men and we battle on despite feeling like we've just been shot. You women just don't get it."

"We wouldn't make this much fuss. We would just get on with things."

John massaged his legs. "Yes, you would!" He argued. "No one could stand up to this!"

"It's just your muscles cramping. Get over it."

"We can't just get over it! How do you think we won World War Two?"

Donovan's face dropped. "What?"

"Just before the end, Hitler suddenly suffered really bad PMS and was unable to make any more decisions. That's why he took a suicide pill. He thought it was a herbal painkiller, which had been carefully substituted by a spy from Wales. Some historians even believe that Hitler suffered from PMDD._"_

Sherlock was ignoring the inane conversation, looking again at the body. But, his hands were shaking, his body was in agony and the whole squeezing sensation in his stomach was making him want to run to the loo, and feeling horribly nauseated at the same time.

In fact, he vomited as another wave of pain overtook him.

"Quick!" He heard John yell. "Get this man a hot water bottle, three bars of chocolate and a box set of Top Gear! Stat!"

"Well?" asked Molly. "What do you think?"

Sherlock smirked and readjusted the microscope. "It would be a very silly world, Molly Hooper."


End file.
